


Weddings At Riverrun

by PanBoleyn



Series: Know What You're Fighting For [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied Character Death, Other Implied Pairings - Freeform, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:06:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Southron King and the King in the North seek to renew their alliance with a double marriage. A young lioness for a Bastard Lord, a Princess of the North for the Lord of Highgarden, a septon to say the blessings in Riverrun's godswood. But is it all as simple, as easy as it sounds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weddings At Riverrun

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been a while, but I'm back in this 'verse after taking way, way too long to finish this fic. Quick FYI on Edmure's wife - Alyx is another Frey, Walder's granddaughter and seventeen at the time of ASOS. Required disclaimer, Westeros and all the people who live there belong to GRRM, not me.
> 
> And oh, by the way, if you read some of the things the Starks are thinking and go "Wait, did Pan kill...?" Yes. Yes, I did, my apologies. Actually, we find out about two deaths during the war in this one, if you're paying attention.

Willas Tyrell had always known that he would marry for the good of the family, that his bride might be younger than him, so on and so forth; he knew all that he needed to be ready for this marriage. Of course, after his injury, his value as a husband went down – lords didn't like the idea of offering a daughter to a cripple, even if that made their daughter the future Lady of Highgarden, their grandson the eventual heir.

 

He found that he didn't mind – his bachelor state allowed him to focus on breeding his horses and reading his books. Garlan got married instead of him, and one day Margaery would be next – Loras, on the other hand, was likely to remain a bachelor as well, though for different reasons than Willas had. Their father didn't know about Loras and Lord Renly, and Willas only knew because he'd had the misfortune to see them once, on a visit to the capital.

 

It wasn't that his brother was with another man. He'd suspected that, and from the things he'd read, he knew such things were not a taboo everywhere, and if his little brother was happy then he wouldn't let himself judge. He just wished he hadn't had to _see_ that; who wants to see their sibling in the middle of such things, honestly? Except the Lannister twins, as the world later found out.

 

But as time went on, Willas had gotten used to the idea that he would not marry – and, in all honesty, he didn't mind the idea of passing Highgarden on to Garlan eventually. He liked his brother's wife; Leonette would make a good Lady of Highgarden one day. And then King Robert died, that little monster Joffrey took the throne, and before anyone knew it, both of Robert's brothers were declaring themselves kings. And Renly, well, he came to Highgarden, and married Margaery – how ridiculous, the man Loras loved marrying their sister.

 

On the day of the wedding, when Garlan leaned over to whisper to him, Willas expected him to say something about how mad this was – it was all he could think about, after all. “You know, it'll be you next. Loras is bound for Renly's Kingsguard; Father's not about to let you go unmarried for much longer.”

 

And now, it seemed, Garlan's prediction was coming true. Except for it being their father's plan; Mace Tyrell had died of a heart attack four moons previously, and Willas was the new Lord of Highgarden. No, he was obliged to marry not at his father's pleasure, but at his goodbrother the King's. He was to be part of an alliance with the Starks, now the royal family in the North. Lady Myrcella Lannister was to marry King Robb's half-brother – or cousin, if some of the rumors were true – Jon Fitzstark, and Willas was to marry his sister, Sansa Stark, the girl once promised to Joffrey.

 

He had no idea how he felt about that, but when Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun said that his nephew's party had been sighted on the kingsroad, it was too late for hesitations or regrets. He was going to be married in a few days' time, and there really wasn't anything he could do about it even if he didn't want it. And, really, he hadn't decided yet if he did or didn't.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sansa rode on Robb's left, her direwolf pup Smoke trotting at her horse's heels. Riverrun was coming up before them, and she could hear the sound of the river in the air, just like the crisp scent of snow lingered at Winterfell, even in the middle of summer when there was no snow. It wasn't summer when they rode south, of course, only the early days of spring, but the point remained. Sansa remembered summer, her first clear memories were of the height of summer in the North. She'd been just a little girl then, dreaming of the knights and fair maidens in stories and songs.

 

But as Riverrun came up before them, Sansa had never felt further away from the little girl she'd once been, even though she'd thought of high summer at Winterfell because early spring at Riverrun held the same fading coolness in the air, albeit one that promised more warmth in the future rather than being the warmest one could expect. Her fingers tightened on the reins and she pressed her lips together. She wasn't ready to be married, not yet. It felt like she'd had so little time to get used to Winterfell again, to feel _safe_ again after everything that had happened to her in the Red Keep.

 

Glancing across, behind Robb's back, she met Jon's Stark-grey eyes and knew her half-brother – or maybe her cousin, as some now whispered – felt the same way as she did. She was fonder of Jon than she had been before; he was the one who'd finally found her, tearing through the Red Keep while Robb led the Northern forces, and that had created a bond between them. She also knew that he wasn't much more comfortable with marriage than she was, though he mostly worried how a bride who had been born a princess would handle the Bastard Lord, as Jon was often called now.

 

Sansa, on the other hand, wondered what would happen to her after the wedding. She was marrying into Queen Margaery's family, and chances were that would at least mean visits to King's Landing. She was given to understand that while the Lord of Highgarden was his goodbrother's Master of Laws, he did not currently live in the capital, usually doing his work via raven and visits to court when required. But eventually she was sure that King Renly wouldn't want one of his small council hiding away in the Reach, and then... Then...

 

Her mother had remained at Winterfell with Robb, Bran, and Rickon when Father had become King Robert's Hand, but she knew that Aunt Lysa had lived with Lord Arryn at court when he was Hand. Mother only stayed because Robb had needed someone to help him run Winterfell. The odds were that she would have to return to the Red Keep one day, and Sansa wasn't sure she could do that.

 

But for now all she had to do was ride into Riverrun's courtyard to meet the southron court and her future husband. Oh, and see Myrcella again... But all of that, Sansa could easily do.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The greetings seemed to take forever, and Myrcella Lannister was uncomfortably reminded of when she had come with her mother and brothers and stepfather to Winterfell. It was a very similar gathering, the kings greeting each other and then bringing others forward. Only this time, the kings were too young and too red-haired to be the King and Lord that had met before. Renly and Robb were not the great friends Robert and Eddard had been either, though it was obvious that they were reasonably fond of each other.

 

King Robb made his introductions first, apologizing for the absence of his wife Queen Roslin, still recovering from the birthing bed. Then he beckoned and two of his company dismounted and stepped forward. Myrcella knew the man who looked so like Ned Stark must be Jon Fitzstark, her future husband, but she only glanced at him. There would be time to study him and take his measure later; for now her eyes rested on Sansa, who she hadn't seen in several years.

 

Their eyes met, bright blue to green-gold, and as soon as all of the introductions had been made, Myrcella waited for her moment, and then caught Sansa by the wrist and drew her away. They found themselves in the godswood, which was... surprisingly appropriate, Myrcella thought. She remembered the godswood in King's Landing, autumn sun and both of them learning what it was liked to be kissed, though not from the handsome boys they would have pictured.

 

One glance at Sansa and Myrcella knew she was thinking of the same memories.

 

“Cella, what...? We can't possibly risk... and anyway, weren't we supposed to stop?” Sansa said, uncertainly, and Myrcella smiled ruefully.

 

“And so we did, but we'll always have that, over or not. But I only wanted to talk to you privately, Sansa. After all, you know my future husband and I know yours, we ought to swap stories, don't you think?”

 

“Oh.” Sansa smiled as well, then, a wry smile that Myrcella echoed. “Do you want me to tell you about Jon first?”

 

“You can, if you'd like. I vaguely remember when he and your kingly brother came to fetch you, but I was... more preoccupied with Renly and his men at the time.” And also, with the fact that she was about to lose her best friend, her first love. But Myrcella pushed those thoughts aside as Sansa began to talk about Jon. Quiet, serious Jon, whose primary focus was as Robb's Hand. His duties included dealing with the Others, who Sansa assured Myrcella were very real, whatever the scoffers at the southron court said about them.

 

“Jon is... he really is wonderful, he and Robb are the best men I've known, save for perhaps my father.” Myrcella would have asked why Sansa said perhaps, when everyone has always said Ned Stark was one of the best men in Westeros, though a fool in some ways – and then she realized the ways in which he was foolish might well be why Sansa phrased things as she did. Myrcella might not have had much time to take the measure of her future husband or of his brother the Wolf King, but she had seen their eyes and there was no hint of naivety there. Ned Stark's naivety came very close to destroying his family; the lessons his sons took from that were quite clear, when considered in that light.

 

“I never was close to him before,” Sansa admitted, looking faintly guilty. “My mother... I took my cue from her. But after Jon was the one who found me, even before Robb did, I couldn't look at him as an outsider anymore.” She lifted her chin. “And Willas Tyrell?”

 

“Decent,” Myrcella said thoughtfully. “I don't know him as well as you do your brother, of course, but Willas is a good man. Prefers Highgarden to court, is the only Tyrell the Martells like – his injury is from a tilt against Oberyn Martell, and yet the ravens fly between the two of them with regularity. He'll be good to you; it's not in his nature to be otherwise.”

 

Someone cleared their throat behind them; it was Lady Alyx, Lord Edmure's wife. “The Kings are wondering where you are,” she explained, and turned to go back inside with the clear indication that she expected them to follow. Myrcella exchanged a look with Sansa – apparently, their moment to compare situations was over.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was unfair to resent her because her curls were golden and not red, because her teeth were small and straight rather than crooked, for the lack of freckles on her face or her eyes that were green-gold and coolly distant instead of lively blue-grey. Jon knew that resenting Myrcella Lannister because she wasn't Ygritte was a terrible mistake. He had seen it already, had seen the way Robb's wife Roslin looked at his daughter by Jeyne, had seen how Roslin was cold to Robb because he'd called her Jeyne in the marriage bed. He didn't want a marriage like that, but all he could think of, looking at Myrcella, was Ygritte saying _“All men must die, Jon Snow, but first we'll live.”_

 

All he could think of was the lover he hadn't meant to steal, who had taught him what men and women could be together and what it meant to fall in love. But Myrcella was to be his wife, a proper wife that was given to him. And he thought there was just enough of the false wildling left in him that he chafed at the idea of being _given_ a wife.

 

Ghost liked her, though. When he'd approached the lady after they broke their fast, suggesting a walk, Ghost had gone right up to her. To her credit, Myrcella had not so much as flinched, and now Ghost trotted between them as they walked in the godswood where they would wed in three days' time. “This is hardly a godswood,” he found himself saying.

 

“No?” Myrcella asked, one eyebrow raised.

 

“It's more a place for children to play – there's no weirwood, even.” Jon shook his head. “I apologize, my lady. I'm sure you've no interest in this.”

 

“Are you sure of that, Lord Fitzstark? Why don't you regale me with the stories of real godswoods above the Neck – or are they only real beyond the Wall? I know so little, you see.”

 

And he'd offended her. Well, at least angering women was something he was good at, he'd often faced Ygritte's – No. He needed to stop this. “I didn't mean that, my lady. I only – I was not meant for this,” he said helplessly.

 

“And I was? I was born a princess of the Iron Throne, and now I'm a bastard about to marry another bastard!” Myrcella snapped, whirling on him. “Seven take you, I am not a fool and I will not be spoken to as if I know nothing!”

 

It was too similar. _“You know nothing, Jon Snow._ ” It sent Jon reeling, and he had no idea how to respond to Myrcella with her cold eyes. But he didn't have to, because a voice he didn't recognize called her name from the entrance to the godswood. A tall young man with golden hair, the image of the Kingslayer as Jon remembered him from that long-ago day at Winterfell. And behind him was someone Jon did remember – Tyrion Lannister, the only one to be honest with him when he was a foolish boy with foolish dreams.

 

And suddenly the cold, angry woman he was to marry was gone as she flew across the grass into her brother's arms. “Tommen! Uncle Tyrion!” she cried as she ran, and Tommen Lannister caught her up and spun her around before releasing her. She seemed heedless of her fine gown as she knelt in rain-wet grass to hug her uncle, and something caught in Jon's throat.

 

Because _this_ was Myrcella Lannister, not the distantly polite courtier or the coldly angry woman he'd just been arguing with. Well, perhaps the anger was her as well, but anger he could face if that was what was under it. Because the woman he saw now, who he could tell even from here was reluctant to let go of either her brother or her uncle, was a woman who cared. A woman with a spirit under the reserve, and...

 

And it wasn't enough to make him look at her and not wish for red curls, crooked teeth, and grey-blue eyes. But it was enough to make him think that, perhaps, he could learn to like the sight of golden curls and green-gold eyes, even if his kissed by fire ghost never left him. Ghost nudged his hand, and Jon curled his fingers into his direwolf's ruff. “Perhaps this won't be so bad, hmm?” he murmured to the wolf, and he wasn't sure if he was telling Ghost or himself.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He didn't know what to make of Smoke, Sansa noted. She and Willas Tyrell were seated in Lady Alyx's solar, and she watched his gaze flick back to her direwolf again and again. “She would never attack you, my lord. Not unless you hurt me,” she added, and Willas' gaze snapped from Smoke to her, their eyes meeting.

 

“And you expect me to need that warning, Your Highness?” he asked, voice mild, but there was something in his eyes, an anger. But she did not think it was like Joffrey's anger; it reminded her more of Robb's expression when one of his bannermen had expressed the opinion that Roslin's frosty attitude toward him could be mended with a good slap to the face.

 

“It was not a warning, my lord, merely an attempt at honesty. Smoke will not hurt anyone unless they threaten me.” And Sansa herself would not allow anyone to hurt her again – she did not intend to let Willas Tyrell know about the dragonglass dagger strapped to her thigh, but there was a little of Arya in Sansa now (and a little of Sansa in Arya, sometimes, when she looked at her blacksmith). Sansa reached down, fingers curling in Smoke's ruff. “I'm told it is you who insisted that there must be a septon, if we do not actually marry in a sept?”

 

“Yes; I was fostered by my mother's family at Oldtown, and I take my faith seriously. You follow the Old Gods?”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa said, thinking that this was ridiculous. Once, her courtesies had been her armor, but Sansa knew different things now. She knew Robb and Roslin – though they were the last ones she would ever want to emulate, frosty as things had been between them for far too long. But there was Arya and Gendry, Arya who stubbornly refused to marry anyone if she could not have her blacksmith, and joined Robb's Kingsguard instead to prove her point. Or there was Jon, who told Sansa about Ygritte in a soft voice one day in the godswood. And she knew Myrcella, had learned what sweet kisses were from her as surely as Joffrey had taught her cruel ones – twins like their parents, but such opposite spirits.

 

“I do not want to do this,” she told Willas, her eyes bright and intent on his face, and something fell away from his golden eyes, some distance replaced with a curiosity that seemed far more real. “I'm not speaking of our marriage, I'm speaking of _this_. This ridiculous formality. We are to be married, my lord, and we cannot speak to each other like strangers for all of our lives.”

 

Willas Tyrell laughed. “And I was told I was getting the Stark who was all Tully, not a drop of wolf blood in you. I think they were wrong about that, Princess Sansa.”

 

“My sister would argue, but then Arya is all wild.”

 

“They say she is a member of her brother's Kingsguard?” There was nothing but curiosity in Willas' voice, but Sansa found that she bristled a bit anyway. Once she would have lamented Arya and how she stood by little Aislinn's side when she was not ordered to Robb's, Needle strapped to her hip, but after fearing her dead, wishing for her in the awful days of Joffrey's reign, she could no longer regret what her sister was even when she didn't quite understand it.

 

“Lady Brienne is in King Renly's Kingsguard, and they say second only to your brother the Lord Commander in his esteem,” Sansa pointed out. “I think they would like each other, but Arya chose to remain behind as she spends most of her time guarding our niece Princess Aislinn.”

 

“Lady knights, or as good as,” Willas murmured. “It does rather make one feel as though we live in a song. I meant no offense to your sister.”

 

Living in a song... “We certainly do not live in a song,” Sansa said. “And we should be glad of it – the songs, when they become real, turn sour. Life is sweeter, I find.” And when that drew a wry laugh from him, one that lit up his serious face, Sansa thought that perhaps her thoughtless comment could be proven true in time. She was past romantic dreams, but perhaps not entirely past the hope of a marriage that could be happy.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They were like Jaime and Cersei come again, and Tyrion supposed that made sense. The Lord of Casterly Rock was silent for once as his niece and nephew (or son and daughter, legally speaking) caught up on their news, speaking face-to-face for the first time since Renly Baratheon sent Tommen to join Tyrion at the Rock. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to look at them. They looked like Jaime and Cersei, and he fully believed they were the best of his beautiful, golden siblings. And perhaps... Perhaps they were even the best of him, too.

 

“This Jon Fitzstark, he'll treat you well, do you think?” Tommen was asking, expression gravely serious. Myrcella shrugged.

 

“He seems to think I'm an idiot – or he just has no notion of how to speak to a woman, I cannot tell which,” she said carelessly. “But really, Tommen, he's a Stark – he looks like Lord Eddard come again. I can't imagine that he'd be anything less than kind, if awkward about it.”

 

“They say he might not really be a Stark,” Tommen insisted. “You know the rumors as well as anyone. They say that he's Rhaegar Targaryen's get by Lyanna Stark, and whether he truly kidnapped and raped her as Robert always said or she went with him for love or something in between the Targaryens as a whole were not known for being kind.”

 

“I knew him years ago, and I'd say that boy's all Stark, regardless of whether the Stark blood comes from Ned Stark or his sister,” Tyrion cut in, seeing Myrcella bristling at Tommen's over-protectiveness. It made sense that she was annoyed by it, when once, when they had been Prince and Princess _she_ was the one who protected _him_ from Joffrey's cruelties. “I doubt the Wall or service as his brother's Hand changed him that much.” Though from what little he'd seen of Jon, the man had lost the quiet, bitter anger of the boy and that could only be for the better.

 

“I just...” Tommen sighed, turning away from them. “It's not fair, that we get to see you now only to lose you to the North for the gods know how long! What if we _never_ see you again?”

 

Gods. Tyrion could not blame him, because he wondered the same thing. Myrcella flinched at her brother's words, and then jerked her chin up defiantly. “Let him try and keep me away from you forever,” she said, and there was a hint of a threat in her words. “I can take ship from White Harbour to visit you, and he will not stop me even if he tries. I can't imagine that he will – Sansa says he's kind enough.”

 

“Let's not worry too much about the Bastard Lord, hmm?” Tyrion suggested. “You'll be away from that fool Renly and his simpering court; I'm sure you're glad of that.”

 

“More than I can say,” Myrcella said with a laugh, tossing her hair. “Whatever my husband-to-be is or is not, I can't imagine he wants a ninny-in-waiting for a wife and I am so very tired of playing at being one.”

 

“I still find it hard to believe that Renly Baratheon knew you as a girl and never realized your behavior at his court was nothing but a clever act,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. He'd always considered Renly the least idiotic of his siblings until he realized how thoroughly Myrcella had fooled him and his pretty Tyrell Queen. And Margaery ought to have known better too, for that matter. But Tyrion was glad since it kept Myrcella safe.

 

He was trusting the man who had been a boy called Jon Snow to keep her safe now, and happy if he could. At some point he'd have to let him know that. He wouldn't bring Tommen, though; for all his talk and his look of Jaime Tommen was still too gentle to be threatening until someone had actually _earned_ the threat.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Grey Wind and Ghost were lying in the grass, seemingly napping but far more alert than they looked, while Smoke raced around the heels of the three Starks as they walked by the river that gave Riverrun its name. “The High Septon was ranting at me about the godswood at supper last night – he tells me that all of us Northerners are cursed to one of the seven hells if we don't come into the light of the Seven,” Robb said, sounding more bored than anything. Years of kingship and a tense marriage had tempered him, and really, the old man's whining was just ridiculous and dull besides.

 

He had married Roslin the same way Jon and Sansa were to be married, in a godswood with a septon to perform the blessings a worshiper of the Seven would want. Of course, he'd married Jeyne in a sept but he rarely let himself remember that. Except when he looked at Aislinn and could not forget... But the only reason this design of a marriage between faiths was a problem this time was because it was the damned High Septon giving those blessings. Renly had insisted, or someone had anyway and Renly pushed it on him.

 

“Well, at least you didn't have Tyrion Lannister threaten you if you mistreat his niece – that was an unusual experience,” Jon said, his voice very dry. Sansa covered her mouth to muffle her laughter.

 

“Am I the only one not plagued by someone or other?” she asked with a light of mischief in her eyes. “Though I do wish Queen Margaery would stop giving me those _knowing_ looks when she sees me talking to her brother. All I am doing is getting to know my future husband better.”

 

“At least you can talk to Tyrell without sending him off in a temper, which I cannot seem to manage with Myrcella,” Jon said ruefully.

 

“I need to teach you how to talk to her,” Sansa said, and Robb laughed.

 

“What, like you taught him how to talk to girls when we were all children? Sansa, that was a disaster that ended with Jeyne Poole throwing wine in Jon's face.”

 

“Must you bring that up again?” Jon wanted to know, scowling.

 

“Of course he must – it's a way to tease us both at once,” Sansa said, and Robb's heart twisted in his chest because this was what they should have been as children. What they never quite were, because they took each other for granted and let their differences get in the way. He wished Rickon and Arya could have been here too, but they'd stayed home for a reason. He also wished for Bran (and Theon too, his brother in spirit if not by blood), or would, but he tried not to wish for true impossibilities. But at least he had Jon and Sansa, and this stolen moment where they weren't King, Princess, and Bastard Lord, but just family.

 

Shaking off the thoughts, he grinned wickedly at them both, like the boy he'd been before the raven came with news of his father's arrest. “If I didn't tease, what kind of elder brother would I be, hmm?”

 

~ ~ ~

 

A King could demand many things, but one thing it was almost impossible to have once a crown was put on your head was privacy. Renly had – for obvious reasons – always valued his and if there was one thing he hated about being King it was the loss of his. But on the morning of the double wedding, he sought out a moment to speak to Myrcella alone.

 

He'd never quite believed she was the silly girl she acted at his court, but he hadn't wanted to know what was behind the bright smiles and brighter laughter, so he'd never tried to find out. But seeing her in her red gown, her red and gold Lannister cloak on her shoulders, he found himself wishing he did know so at least he knew what to expect. “Myrcella.”

 

“Your Grace.” She turned to face him, her grandfather's eyes in her mother's face, and her expression was distant, cool.

 

“Uncle,” he said, feeling like there was something caught in his throat.

 

“No, you are a Baratheon and I am a Lannister. Your Grace.”

 

“I – Myrcella, you know I meant it, don't you?” This was why he'd had to speak to her; he needed her to understand. “When I said you were as much my niece as Shireen. I knew Tyrion would never risk you any more than I would or I'd have found another ward.”

 

“Another _hostage_ , you mean?” Myrcella said, eyes blazing, and Renly found himself wondering if Cersei had ever turned anger like this on Robert, wondered even more wildly if Myrcella actually was Robert's, because with this much fury she suited the Baratheon words as well as Robert had, far better than Renly himself did.

 

“Gods, Renly, you actually expect me to believe you when you claim to care about me? You and the Young Wolf took King's Landing and your beloved Knight of the Flowers slapped me in chains! You made me watch them take my parents' heads! I had to stand there and see it and I have not slept the night through since!”

 

“Myrcella, I – ”

 

“No! You started this, you listen, _Your Grace_. I have not seen Uncle Tyrion or Tommen in years because you would not let me see them, all my letters to them were opened and read, and you call that seeing me as family? You call that caring for me as you did Shireen? No one opened _Shireen's_ letters to anyone, even though some will still call her the rightful Queen when you can't hear them! I am the Kingslayer's bastard and I'm proud of that because he cared for me more than your brother ever could, I'm a Lannister of Casterly Rock and after today a Fitzstark of Black Tower, but I am _not your family_.”

 

She was, to him. He'd shown her the dragon skulls under the Red Keep, once, let her play at being Visenya Targaryen, riding on her shoulders like he was her dragon. Renly had known things were different, but he hadn't realized how completely he'd lost the little girl he'd once loved. He'd lost both his brothers twice, once to the indifference toward each other than ran through them all, and second to their deaths. Robert's that had come as such a shock, Stannis' that was Renly's fault for all he'd never ordered it, never _wanted_ it.

 

But this. This grown-up version of the girl who had once looked up and asked him to teach her how to dance, this woman glaring at him with Tywin Lannister's eyes... This was his fault, he'd caused this all on his own and even if this was not the result he'd intended, his actions had been deliberate. It felt like another death as he left her, though he wasn't sure if it was the ghost of that little girl who had died or the part of him that still wanted to think he could have everything as he wanted, and nothing go wrong at all.

 

It was, in the end, probably both.

 

~ ~ ~

 

For Myrcella, it felt unreal when Tyrion escorted her to the godswood. She was still Renly's ward until the moment Jon Fitzstark's cloak touched her shoulders, but while he was supposed to be the one to escort her he'd suddenly announced Tyrion should do it as her legal father. If it was meant as some kind of apology it was far too little and far too late, but Myrcella was glad of the gesture regardless. She still couldn't believe she'd finally told Renly exactly what she thought of him, but actually, it was fitting. Today could be a new start for her, with all of that behind her. Perhaps.

 

She hardly listened to the prayers the High Septon intoned, barely noticed the smell of the incense smoke that wafted around them from the censer in his hand. She was aware of Jon Fitzstark tense at her side, but his eyes were not unfriendly when they looked at her. Just... unsure, and somehow sad. She wondered why, but now that they'd turned to face each other it was time for the changing of the cloaks. Myrcella knelt gracefully so Uncle Tyrion could remove her Lannister cloak, her eyes flicking over to meet Tommen's before she'd thought about it. Then she rose again and Jon moved behind her, settling the black cloak with the white howling direwolf over her shoulders. _Forever watchful_ were her new husband's words – they were hers too, she supposed, and they were fitting, in a way. Especially for the rest of that day, through the celebrations to the moment when they stood almost naked in their bedchamber, when he watched her and she watched him like neither of them quite knew what to do with the other.

 

Robb walked Sansa to the godswood and squeezed her hand before placing it in Willas'; his presence just a bit behind was comforting as she listened to the septon pray over them. She closed her eyes and let the words wash over her, let her world shrink down to the faint scent of incense and warm fingers tangled with her own. The thought of marriage had become a nightmare since Joffrey's true nature was revealed, but this, whatever it would be, was not going to be that. It could be something good, she thought with a flare of hope she'd thought herself no longer capable of.

 

The moment when Robb slipped the Stark cloak from her shoulders and Sansa stood there with no family and no name at all, nothing but red hair tumbling down her shoulders over the pale blue of her gown, that was the moment a breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees and she thought of her father, of Bran. She hoped they could see, somehow, she hoped they knew things had turned out well in the end. Then Willas placed a Tyrell cloak on her shoulders and she turned to face him, blue eyes fixing steadily on gold-brown. Later, they spoke quietly through the celebrations, and that night, when Willas traced the scars on her back with one long finger and an expression that said if the men responsible had not already paid he would find a way to _make_ them, Sansa thought maybe, just maybe daring to hope was wise.

 

Jon had never thought to marry, and even now he couldn't quite believe that this was happening. Tommen Lannister was glaring at him and Tyrion Lannister had given him a piercingly searching look as he stepped away from his niece. Myrcella, for her part, seemed as far away as Jon himself felt like he was. Standing in a Southron godswood, all he could think of was the weirwood beyond the Wall where he'd knelt and spoken different vows than the ones he would today, ones that should have prevented today's.

 

He'd dreamed, once, of showing Ygritte Winterfell, but as he draped the cloak with the sigil he had chosen for himself over Myrcella's shoulders, lightly tugging her blonde curls free of the heavy cloth (they were softer than the red curls he could not forget) he let himself imagine what it would be like to take his new wife home to Black Tower. What it would be like to learn to be together, in lives neither of them could have expected to have. It would not give either of them back what they had lost, but Jon thought there were lessons in love he'd yet to learn that they could learn together, that Myrcella might continue to live far from her family but there was no reason that had to mean they were lost to her. It was a place to begin. Even if he didn't know how to tell her, even if he watched her all the rest of the day and tried to find the words but simply could not.

 

Willas had expected the King in the North to take him aside at some point, especially considering what little he knew of Sansa's time in King's Landing. Surely Robb Stark would want to make it clear his sister was to receive the best treatment. Perhaps he thought it went without saying, perhaps he was too much a King to stoop to threats. Jon Fitzstark, if the dangerous glint in his grey eyes was any indication when he studied Willas as they waited in the godswood, did not mind stooping at least to silent threats.

 

He forgot all that when Sansa approached – she was right, they did not live in a song, but she looked like she ought to, in Stark grey and white, a blue dress under it and her red hair catching the light. She closed her eyes during the ceremony and he couldn't begin to guess why, but for himself he was surprised to find he was glad they were not in a sept. Although, it would have been easier, with his bad leg, if they had been. He didn't need his cane for the few steps to move behind Sansa and put his cloak about her shoulders, so it was not in the way when she turned to face him. Garlan, who fancied himself a bit of a poet these days, had japed that this marriage was good – Highgarden needed a winter rose. At that moment, and when he watched Sansa twirled around the floor in the evening by her brothers and his, when she came back with flushed cheeks and sat with him, and that night when there was neither judgment nor pity in her eyes when he needed her help to get into their marriage bed... He thought the jape might have been quite true after all.


End file.
